Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

She has an urge to put on her coat and boots and walk. Just follow the moonlight to wherever it leads. She imagines the crisp sound of the snow underfoot. The chill of the air on her cheeks. The sharp cold sucking at her breath. The sensation of walking in blackness, not knowing what’s behind or ahead…

She leans close to the window. Her warm breath condenses on the glass. She draws her finger through the moisture. We have to sleep now, baby. It’s time to sleep .

Lately, even when she closes her eyes and opens them to find that dawn has arrived, she’s certain that she hasn’t slept. She has been suspended between awake and dreaming. But tonight she remembers a dream. Someplace warm and safe. She hears the fire. She sees color. Transparent red. She floats in a sea of sound. She hears muffled laughter, fragments of song, the deep low pulse of a man’s voice, the clang of the woodstove door shutting. She is sucking her thumb. She is inside a poppy flower swaying in the breeze, the light bleeding through its petals, rocking her to sleep. The petals close around her, tight and heavy. She pushes against them, but their weight crushes down, constricting her ribs. She woke up in bed, pinned. She lifted Teodor’s sleeping arm from her belly and got up. That was hours ago.

She traces the frost in the corners of the windowpane. She wishes she could make some bread or mend Teodor’s pants, but she’s afraid she’ll wake the others. She wants to shake Teodor awake: “I can’t sleep.” Make him sit with her or take her for that walk. She wants to clap her hands and announce, “Breakfast is ready.” Hear the clamor of her children, crawling out of bed, squealing as their bare feet touch the frozen dirt floor. Answer their groggy questions: “No, the sun’s not coming up today. Today we’re going to live at night.” She scratches the frost from the glass; it curls under her nails and melts.

She wonders if Anna is awake and remembers her nocturnal walks. She looks hopefully across the field, wanting to see her cloaked figure. It used to frighten her when her sister-in-law wandered off into the night. Now she yearns to join her. How could she have not told anyone? Why didn’t she come to her? If she had come earlier, she could have helped. She could have made her parsley tea and a vinegar bath the very next day, before there was a baby. God forgive her, but she would have helped. She would have prayed to the child’s soul and asked it not to come. She would have explained that this mother had two children already and no one to help take care of them. She would have asked for mercy.

But Anna didn’t tell her, even though they were only separated by a wooden wall. If she had told her, she would have said, “I understand what it feels like to be alone.”

She would have told her about the night last winter, when she couldn’t sleep. A blizzard had come in and the wind was wailing. Snow was ferreting through the cracks. The children were huddled on the straw mattress, shivering. She had piled every spare piece of clothing on top of them to fend off the bitter cold. Ivan had cried himself to sleep after Maria caught him eating a raw potato he had stolen from their precious stores. She had whipped him with the wooden spoon until it broke.

She was shoving one of the last sticks of wood into the stove, realizing that she would have to burn one of the chairs next, when she saw herself pulling it back out of the fire, its end flaming. Its warmth scorched her cheeks and hand. She thought, If I set this place on fire, we’ll be warm. It was so simple.

Then she remembered Teodor’s promise that he would come back for her. That she wouldn’t be alone forever. She thought about what would happen to him if he came back and they were gone. He wouldn’t understand how cold they were. She put the kindling into the stove, fell on her knees, and prayed for forgiveness.

She would have understood. But now it’s too late. Now there is a baby. Now there can be no forgiveness. She prays for Anna’s mistakes, tries to make Him understand why Anna can’t ask for her own forgiveness. Asks Him to see the loneliness in her soul and guide her back from the wilderness. Make her love this child. Make this child her salvation.

Her fingers rub the wooden cross around her neck. She looks up to the stars, wanting a sign.

Maybe Stefan will stay this time.

Teodor told her not to bother going to Anna’s this afternoon, but she did anyway. He answered the door, crowing like a rooster. His chest puffed out, he welcomed her in like she was a guest. Invited her to sit down and have some lunch; she declined. Lesya was serving him eggs, pyrohy, bread, and raspberry jam. He asked for bacon or ham—a proper meal for a man. Lesya told him they didn’t have any. Feigning shock, he announced that now that he was home he would get them a pig. He pulled a flask from his pocket and topped up his coffee. He winked at Petro and told the boy to get more wood. He rubbed his old war injury and told Maria how much it hurt in the cold weather.

He regaled them with stories from town, the latest gossip of politics and intrigue. He told Petro about a toy train that ran on steam. He told them about the rich people who drove through town in a Model T, wearing goggles and fur coats. He told Maria about a washing machine that ran on electricity and could wash ten bedsheets in one load. He told them about a hip-of-beef dinner at the hotel, which cost five dollars a plate, and a wind-up piano that played music all by itself. He told Lesya about a dance where the women wore dresses that shone like silver. Their hair held up in swirling buns with feathers and tortoiseshell combs.

Petro sat beside his father, clutching a mottled apple, hanging on to every word. Lesya busied herself at the stove. Anna never said a word. She sat at the other end of the table, eating a jar of jam with her fingers, ignoring the bread. Her belly engorged beneath her smock, her breasts low and full, she stared at her husband. He said none of the women could dance as good as his Anna.

When Maria tried to help with the cleanup, he insisted that Lesya would take care of things. When she offered to stay the night and keep an eye on Anna, because the baby was unusually active and her pulse was high, he assured her that he would look after his wife. When she got up to go, he walked her outside. The last thing he said was: “You don’t have to come by anymore. I’m home now.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a star streak across the sky. But when she turns to look, it is already gone. We have to sleep, baby. It will be morning soon.

Teodor whimpers in his sleep. Maria creeps quietly to the bed. He lies on his stomach. His right leg twitches. His face is anguished, his hair slick with sweat. She rests her hand on his feverish forehead.

He bolts upright, grabbing her arm. His eyes seethe with hate, his teeth are clenched. His breathing labored.

“Teodor.”

He blinks.

“It’s only a dream. A very bad dream.”

He looks past her shoulder, as if searching for the voice.

“You’re home, safe in bed.”

He looks at her, unconvinced.

“Go back to sleep.”

His eyes follow the touch of her hand on his as she lifts his fingers from her arm. She guides him back to the warmth of the quilt and tucks it high around his neck. He curls tight into her pillow. He breathes, “Maria…”

“Yes?” She leans in close, but his breath is once again soft and even.

She rubs the bruises on her wrist and pulls down the sleeve of her nightgown.

PETRO HAS BEEN ASLEEP FOR HOURS. HIS HAND CUPS the apple now pressed against his cheek. He had hidden it under his pillow and fell asleep breathing in its sweet scent, dreaming of its redness against his white sheet.